With Teeth
by redpurpleblack
Summary: The problem with this woman is, Samson never knows what she expects from him when she's not barking commands. He's mad that it was so easy for her to make him obey every word she says, though one part of his mind reminds him that after all, it's simply easier to follow than to lead. / Sampernia; originally posted on DA Kink Meme; full summary and warnings inside
1. Chapter 1

Title: _With Teeth_

Fandom: _Dragon Age_

Characters/Pairings: Calpernia, Samson; Sampernia

Rating: M

Warnings: smut (did you honestly expect they would be holding hands or something); I'm headcanoning them both as bi, so if you're against it then... ignore that one line, or don't read, or write me a very angry comment about it, I don't know…

Disclaimer: _Dragon Age_ is not mine, although the writing certainly is.

A/N: title from a song by Nine Inch Nails which is quite fitting for these two trash lords I think?

You may consider this a follow up to my previous fic, though if you want to see them as two separate things or don't read the previous one at all, it's totally fine. I divided the story into chapters because shorter pieces look better than a wall of text.

* * *

I

"You need to bathe. You _stink_, Samson."

He gives her a look, half wondering if she's joking or not. He never knows what in the Void this woman is thinking, he can't even imagine what is going inside her head, especially when he's around. She may as well wear a thick armour with spikes, grow her nails into claws and sharpen her teeth to resemble fangs. She's like a feral beast ready to pounce on her prey the second she gets a chance.

But Samson knows Calpernia doesn't need to look dangerous. She may seem like every other ordinary girl who is simply...

...ugly, comes to his mind, but he quickly banishes the thought. _Beautiful_, a small voice whispers, and Samson shakes his head, conflicted. He's not that shallow to judge her solely because of her appearance; he knows what she can do, he's seen her setting people on fire with a small gesture of her wrist. There's so much pride in her, in comparison Samson feels bleak and unimportant, even though he has a whole army of Red Templars behind his back.

Calpernia may seem like every other... girl, _woman_, but the second you forget about her power she will not hesitate to remind you how easily she can bend the most dangerous of magic to her will. Whatever is left of his templar training constantly warns him about her. _You know what happens with ruthless mages_, it hisses, spitting red lyrium as it twists its lips in disgust because Samson cannot help but feel drawn to this woman.

He wants to respond with a snarl, a growl, or a cruel reminder that he's the man she takes to her bed whenever she pleases and she never complains, but he merely glares at her silently. There might be someone listening, besides the mages are looking at him with their wry, hostile eyes. Samson and Calpernia never talk much, it's already odd she addressed him so openly while they are among others.

His dirty armour covered in guts and pieces may not be the nicest picture, and his hair is so damp with sweat, blood and lyrium, Samson has to agree with the woman. He looks like he went to the Void and back, while Calpernia's clothes are clean and perfect as if she had a fancy tea party with Orlesian nobles instead of slaughtering whatever or whoever dared to oppose her. Their camp is far away from any traces of civilisation, there's no other option to bathe than in a river nearby, though the very thought of going into the cold water makes him shudder. Samson takes off his precious armour to have it cleaned, at least he has the privilege of having others doing certain tedious tasks for him. Wearing only a shirt and pants (_rags_, Calpernia calls his clothes), carrying a cloth that serves him as a towel, he leaves the camp behind. He undresses quickly, and walks into the river, cursing when the cold water hits his skin.

After a while he turns back and sees Calpernia standing in the distance, observing him. Samson frowns; he didn't expect to see her near him anytime soon after openly mocking him earlier, yet here she is, watching him like a hawk. His expression changes as he realises she's come here because she wants something from him. He never thought she would trick him like this, but then, Samson should have known better than to make any assumptions about this woman.

She changed her clothes, perhaps feeling filthy herself, and she is now wearing one of those Tevinter robes Samson has seen many times before. They show off her legs but also her small breasts (well, he _likes_ how they fit into the palms of his hands, but it's not something he will ever tell her), which means these clothes are not exactly something she should be wearing every day.

He could ask her what is she doing here, but he's observing her silently, knowing there's no time for questions. He should have known she's going to follow him; nothing about Calpernia is unintentional. He feels her eyes fixed on him as he scrubs the filth and blood off his skin. He deliberately takes his time, although he is aware she may lose her patience with him soon enough. The water is cold, though he doesn't care about it anyway. After a while he gets out, walks to the pile of clothes, briefly wondering if he should be wasting his time on putting them on – she's here not for talking, of course. Samson has a moment of realisation; he knows _nothing_ about this woman besides the obvious facts.

Only when he's fully clothed again she walks to him and stops, keeping a safe distance between them. Her cheeks are rosy, eyes sparkling, and she looks absolutely gorgeous. It's more an observation than flattery. People may secretly call her Horseface Flat–tits, but the truth is, she indeed is beautiful in this distant, melancholic way that makes others afraid, and admire her from afar, never getting closer.

"Just had a bath, like you wanted, your majesty," he says in a mocking voice, looking down on her. He sometimes enjoys the height difference between them, though it's merely a silly detail that helps to inflate his ego; besides, if you consider a shorter mage a smaller threat, it may be the last mistake you ever make. "You don't think I'm disgusting anymore?"

Calpernia purses her lips, eyes narrowed. "You are, but it never stopped me before."

_Are we back to insults? You can do better than this_, he thinks, eyeing the frown between her brows with amusement.

The problem with this woman is, Samson never knows what she expects from him when she's not barking commands. He's mad that it was so easy for her to make him obey every word she says, though one part of his mind reminds him that after all, it's simply easier to follow than to lead. He takes a step closer; she doesn't stop him, so he thinks he may as well try doing what _he_ wants before she orders him to do something else.

Calpernia freezes when his lips touch hers, and it happens every time, making him wonder if he should keep trying (what is he supposed to do instead, beat her in the head?). Even though she never tells him anything, he's not blind, and he's not exactly a fan of kissing an unresponsive mannequin.

Since she changed into robes, Samson vaguely remembers someone from the Circle telling him the "real" reason why mages wear clothes resembling long skirts. He thought it was a joke, but he can't help but notice the robes are indeed functional, for many reasons. Especially if the mage is not wearing anything underneath.

Calpernia's regular clothes are a nightmare; Samson never cared about fashion, though now he has to add 'completely impractical clothing' to a list of all things wrong with the Tevinter Imperium. When they… (_made love_? he snorts, it's too funny. _Fucked_) spent the night together for the first time, it took impossibly long to undress her. He remembers he considered tearing those damnable things into pieces and taking her right there, force her to surrender to him completely. However, what could work with some other woman, wouldn't work with Calpernia – he learned that soon enough. Under layers of clothing she was even smaller than he had imagined, so frail compared to what she shows during battles, bending elements to her will, destroying everything that stands in her way. Since the moment he saw her – he truly _saw_ her – as nothing else than this skinny, pale creature, eyes shining with something he still can't quite understand, then he knew it was too late for him to turn back.

She pulls away, and commands him to sit down. Samson briefly glances around, if someone followed her they would surely see them, and obeys without any second thoughts. It's been a while since their last _meeting_, they may not have a luxury of staying in some place that has at least a bed, so they may as well make use of the present moment. Usually it's Calpernia who initiates whatever in the Void she wants him to do. Sometimes he comes to her, like a dog sniffing for a bone, and Calpernia is generous enough to answer his unspoken question.

She straddles him, and then her long fingers are searching for the fastenings to his pants. He inhales sharply as her hand slips inside and wraps around his cock. Impatiently, she pushes her robes out of the way, he sees a glimpse of her skin, and the fact that she's really not wearing anything underneath makes his blood boil. She's completely silent while he nearly hisses when she removes her hand, and grunts at how good she feels as she sinks down on him. It is embarrassing how easily she wrapped him around her little finger. His hair is wet, few drops are trickling down his back into the fabric of his shirt.

Calpernia is not tender or kind to him, and she expects nothing else in return. He hesitates, she doesn't like him touching her more than she allows, she just wants to get what she needs, but he puts his large hands on her slender waist anyway. She has her hands on his shoulders; to keep her balance, not to _hold_ him. The very idea of Calpernia wanting to _hold_ _him_ is absurd. Samson feels her nails digging into his flesh to remind him she's the one in control. He's a weak, weak man, so he doesn't struggle, letting her set the pace, never touching more than her waist even though he wants to…

(crush her bones, leave marks on her delicate skin with his teeth, make her howl as loud as the red beast inside him)

…he wants to feel more of her under his hands, under his whole body. He wants to tear her robes to see and taste her freckled skin that haunts him when he closes his eyes. Samson wants many things he can't get, but he isn't going to complain. If he can't have the whole thing, he's glad he gets scraps – it isn't fair but what is, anyway.

The sky above her head is so blue it looks like a painting; or maybe it's just that everything seems more vivid when she's with him. Perhaps it is simply a need to have someone who wants him. Or who's good at pretending.

Samson looks back at Calpernia just in time to see her shiver, biting on her lower lip. She lets out a half–swallowed cry, refusing to make louder sounds. It is frustrating how quiet she is, but Samson is also perfectly aware she wouldn't hesitate to strike if he pushed her, so he won't dare to force her to respond in a more emotional way. Not yet.

Lyrium sings, some say, but all Samson hears is that scarlet poison howling like a pack of wolves. When he's with Calpernia, all is mute.


	2. Chapter 2

II

One week later they find an abandoned village. Half of the houses burnt to ashes, some serve as their quarters, and Samson chooses a small hut that looks like it could collapse any second. Seems fitting for his solemn mood and all this death, suffering and despair around. All wars are ugly, this might be the ugliest one. _Kirkwall seems like a picnic now_, Samson muses as he walks inside the house and examines it from the inside. At least he doesn't have to get rid of any dead bodies, though there are quite a lot of them scattered around the village. And he can sleep on a bed. It's an old, rickety thing, but it will do.

Being a mere human among an army of monsters is fairly difficult, and despite everything Samson still considers himself human (though he's not sure if he has the right). Basic human needs are left forgotten, suddenly irrelevant because of everything what is going on. Calpernia is human, too, though her calm and icy demeanour make her look more like a statue. The difference between them, however, is that when he curses and complaints that he has to sleep on the cold ground like a blighted Mabari and wake up all sore, Calpernia keeps her mouth shut and simply accepts whatever fate has to offer. She never seems uncomfortable, even though she's not only human, but also a _woman_, and he sometimes wonders if her magic grants her some divine force that helps her survive sleepless nights when they have to move forward, while he's so exhausted he can barely see straight.

Her Venatori are fiercely devoted to The Cause or whatever they believe in, and the slaves Calpernia frees (it is something Samson tries to understand but fails; why does she even bother?), they all look at her like she was Andraste herself. There are so many layers of this complex creature, Samson sometimes wishes he could understand her. He chooses not to, instead. What is currently happening with the whole world is not about her, and most certainly not about him. They have a mission. Win or die. Simple enough and, most importantly, easy to understand.

Samson sleeps for few hours, and wakes up in the middle of the night awakened by the beasts roaring around and inside him. He can't remember when was the last time he slept through a whole night; it appears he doesn't have the privilege of sleeping like a normal human being anymore, he traded it for the red power (poison) flowing through his body. Seems like a fair deal.

He considers getting out and doing something, but he can't push away the yearning he feels as his mind travels to Calpernia. He's a pathetic fool, he knows, walking to the house she claimed as hers. Samson curses in his thoughts because she seems _amused_ when she sees him. At least she's alone, not surrounded by other mages that look at him with hostility. She lets him in.

She is demanding and he obeys her every word

(_Like a dog_, that small voice at the back of his head whispers, _only waiting for someone you could follow._)

and tries not to think, focusing on the present because there is so much of her to touch, and kiss, and lick, at times he feels lost. Again, Calpernia seems surprised when he kisses her; he should explain that, as stupid as it sounds, he likes kissing... women, men, _people_. For now he continues devouring her lips till he tastes nothing else but her on his tongue.

Briefly, he remembers a woman with wide hips and heavy breasts, it was a long time ago, when he was still a respected member of the Templar Order, not the mistake he is now, and he's not sure why he's thinking about her. He can't recall her name, he admits with a tiny hint of sadness, though Samson remembers she had a low voice whispering obscenities into his ear, clearly aroused by the fact she could get a templar out of all that heavy armour.

Calpernia, on the other hand, is so thin he's afraid he could snap her bones if he squeezed her too tight. It doesn't mean he won't try to be a little rough – it seems it's something what she needs. Calpernia never says anything when he leaves marks on her pale skin. She has so many freckles everywhere he can't help but feel jealous, wanting to mark her himself. She marks him as well, scratches his back like a wild cat until he's almost bleeding. At first he thought it means she wants him to stop or slow down, but then she urged him to, "Move, faster!", and since then he remembered. Feeling her nails on his back, it means "don't you dare to stop", and he won't disobey because maybe he's feeling gentleman–y, the lady gets whatever in the Void the lady wants; or perhaps he just doesn't care. Calpernia can take a lot, he should not be worried about her, and he certainly is not.

So they never comment when he leaves marks on her hips, and she's breaking his skin with her nails, because this is the only way they know. It feels right, for them.


	3. Chapter 3

III

She's always so quiet, and it makes him furious that she responds only with small moans or whimpers to whatever he does. It drives him mad when he's panting, his mind and body overtaken by pleasure, and she's just lying there, staring at some unspecified point, as if in her head she was analysing everything he has done, his smallest gesture and every sound. It would be nice if she showed some _emotions_.

People may think differently, but Samson is quite determined once he chooses to do something.

She lets him do what he wants, even though this time he's not following his usual routine (they have a routine? outrageous), but gets on his knees feeling her eyes observing him with this cold, mild interest he secretly hates. Her hiss indicates he grabbed her tights perhaps too roughly. Good. He will make her show him she feels something more than annoyance when she's looking at him. His lips brush his skin, and when he tastes her, he thinks she is more exquisite than anything else in this world.

She is soon gasping for air, tugging at his hair, almost strangling him with her thighs. Her hips move involuntarily, and he can't help but feel smug. This day becomes the day he, finally, makes Calpernia cry out in pleasure, loudly. She whispers something in Tevene, and he's angry he can't understand a word, but then she moans his name in a way that makes him thank the Maker his parents gave it to him.

He smiles triumphantly; it feels like he has just won every battle and conquered every city. Then her knee hits him right in the face, as if all these bruises weren't enough already. There's a river of blood pouring from his nose, and he hisses and curses, pressing his hands to his face. Samson is almost sure there's a hint of smile on Calpernia's lips once she calms down enough to focus back on him, her face burning red, eyes wild.

She's always so composed, it's shocking to see her like this, and Samson can't stop looking. She frowns at all this blood; he thinks she's going to leave but she gets up, walks to a pile of clothes on the floor (her legs are shaking a bit; it's a glorious realisation), and hands him some old shawl that belonged to whoever used to live in this place before they got here. Calpernia sits down on the bed, observing him as he's struggling to stop the bleeding; the blush on her face changes colour to a light pink.

Samson gets up with a sigh. He knows the rules; when she's displeased she's cruel, meaning he should get out of her sight as quickly as possible. He glances around, trying to locate his shirt that must be here somewhere...

"Where are you going? You think we're done here?"

Samson gives her a look, not really believing if what he has just heard was really spoken or imagined by his tormented mind. Calpernia raises an eyebrow, and then she opens her legs wide, gesturing him to get on his knees again before she loses her patience, and gods know she may be a patient woman but not with him.

_So you liked that, huh?_, he thinks, bowing his head to hide a smirk.


	4. Chapter 4

IV

He hasn't told her how much he likes the view of her body as he lays under her and she's moving in a steady rhythm. He hasn't told her that because it would mean he cares, and Samson likes to lie to himself that he doesn't. Sometimes Calpernia bites her lower lip, or opens her mouth in a silent prayer, or lets out a whimper; all these gestures he knows so well now. She's _so close_ Samson yearns to touch _more_, and every now and then she lets him.

She has her hair loose for once, blonde waves on her shoulders and back like a cape. When she arches her back and moans (quietly; she's always so quiet), he feels her whole body shiver, overwhelmed by pleasure. Samson watches her, mesmerised, all his thoughts gone or reduced to the woman who granted him the privilege of touching her sacred body.

He doesn't need any gods, the old ones or the new, if he could only have this moment captured forever in his mind. Everything is so simple here. For one second Samson loathes the world as a whole; everything outside this room becomes irrelevant because nothing comes even close to the image of this woman crying out in pleasure, chanting words in her odd language, and looking at him with such intensity he can nearly physically feel something inside him breaking into pieces. Red lyrium glows but it is nothing comparing to the light she radiates, and Samson is (scared) sure he would be begging her if she ordered him to beg.

She collapses on top of him, so frail and small. One of his hands rests on her back, the other he tangles in her hair, holding her close, too close, refusing to let her go. This is perhaps the most intimate moment she has ever shared with him. Suddenly embarrassed by this display of affection or whatever it is, Samson knows he should push her away before she starts hissing at him like a wild thing she is. Or at least let her go, so she can get up and leave like she always does.

The problem is that he doesn't want to.

Calpernia, thank the Maker, doesn't say a word; she lets him wrap his arms around her. To keep warm in the cold night air, of course.

Samson could swear he closed his eyes only for a moment, but when he wakes up it's already early morning. He's still holding her, Calpernia's back is pressed to his chest, and he has his face in her hair. He shifts uncomfortably, initially too confused by this whole intimacy to enjoy it. It's… odd, and it takes him few moments to remember where they are, and, most importantly, who they are. Samson can never get rid of the taste of lyrium, but when he's with her, he can pretend to forget.

It's not raining anymore; sun shines through the dirty window, colouring the room in the shades of grey. His hands travels from her waist to her breasts, teasing, testing, as he wonders if he would dare to...

Calpernia's eyes flutter open, Samson freezes when she takes a deep breath and grabs his wrist, surely to break his bones and incinerate him with a single spell – but then she presses his hand to her chest urging him to continue. Her lips open slightly, she lets out a faint, panted gasp. Silently, he slides into her, and she awards him with a small moan, pressing her whole body to his, so that Samson may think she's more desperate than him (_Maybe she is_, he lies to himself). She meets his every gentle thrust, and for once she doesn't complain it's not fast or rough, she doesn't order him to do something or stop touching her. He can't help but admire the contrast between their bodies as they move together in a slow, lazy pace. She's needy in a completely new way; he doesn't know what to do with this newly–discovered knowledge, because the woman he's holding doesn't seem like Calpernia; or maybe she is her, and only now he sees the real one, not the fierce leader of the Venatori that could crush him under her boot.

There are so many things wrong with this, his head spins when he thinks about it. He's twice her age (he assumes; he doesn't know much about her); she's a former slave _and_ a mage; red lyrium poisons every fibre of his being (not that he cares about it). And as if it wasn't enough, they're in the middle of a blighted war.

In a moment of weakness, Samson lets out a weak moan and shudders as he spills inside her. He feels pathetic, and filthy, and worthless, and if he could disappear into nothingness, he would. But then Calpernia turns her head to him, lips parted, breathing out words in Tevene. When he leans in to kiss her, he thinks he understood correctly, feeling her responding with hunger, and he's allowed to forget about everything else that is not her.

* * *

Red lyrium howls all around him, chews on his soul, threatening to shatter him if he ever disobey its calling. Samson feels the weight on his shoulders, suddenly too exhausted to move. His lips open, he bares his teeth reminding the whole world he can still bite, like a cornered animal desperate to avoid showing any signs of weakness. His eyes scan the battlefield, and when he notices a majestic figure among flames, he has to look.

Calpernia raises her arms, bending fire to her will as she stands victorious. She's a beacon of light in a sea of red; she should be wearing a crown of bones and gold on her head, make people fall to her feet begging to adore her because she deserves to be worshipped.

Samson has to bite his tongue to feel blood mixing with the taste of lyrium in his mouth, and he turns his head away from her, takes a step forward. Then another one, and another until he's far enough that he's not tempted to search for her among monsters and death.

* * *

A/N2: Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated.


End file.
